Serious Political Puns
by It's-Teatime-Somewhere
Summary: Because puns can be very serious in politics. Things take a turn for the worse when Grantaire loses hope. University AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Grantaire**

This was not the best way to start second semester. However, it was not unusual, which made Grantaire that much more angry. In fact, he didn't even want to go to the goddamn class. It was bullshit, and would be even worse while he was nursinga massive hangover. Who cared about the Enlightenment? It was a stupid time period filled with posh guys who thought they were so high and mighty, when all they really did was piss off other people.

Grantaire hated those people. With the passion of a thousand fiery suns.

Regardless, he knew he was barely passing, and needed to at least try to make a good impression on his teacher. And walking in late wouldn't work well, he thought as he glanced at a clock on the wall. Two minutes left.

Turning the corner, he walked briskly to room 394, pausing only to look at his reflection in the mirror. It was a good thing he had no one to impress, because he looked terrible. His hair was matted and there was a smudge of dirt (he hoped) on his cheek that would not come off. Rolling his eyes, he continued to the room, looking for an unobtrusive seat in the back-  
Damn kids. The only seat left was right in the fucking front, next to the kid with his notebook out already. He walked towards the seat, draping himself in it with a sigh. This was going to suck.

"Good morning, new thinkers!" came a cheerful voice from the back.

Grantaire didn't bother to turn his head, waiting for the professor to walk to the front of the room before giving him a look.  
The voice continued. "My name is Professor Marque, and I will be moderating what I hope to be a vibrant discussion about the Age of Enlightenment!"

Marque was a pot-bellied man with reddened cheeks and bright, blue eyes. To Grantaire, he looked like the man who would smile even when he was shouting at you. How anyone could feel so happy at eight in the fucking morning was beyond him, but Grantaire just went with it. It would do no good to get kicked out on his first day of class; he didn't want another Intro to Chinese Art, now did he…

"...Our main books will be Rousseau's _Social Contract_, Kant's _Critique of Pure Reason_, and, of course, Locke's _Treatises on Government_. Hopefully, these will prompt some lively discussions and get us thinking in the minds of those during the Enlightenment!" He smiled at them all, obviously hoping for some sort of reaction. No one delivered.

"Well, then. Shall we begin our discussion?" Undeterred by the class and their attitude, Marque pulled a few crinkled papers from a cracked leather satchel, flattening them out on the desk beside him. With another grin, he turned to the class. "Please discuss the following question with those around you, and be prepared to share your findings with the class. In terms of political though, which is a better philosophy: Rationalism or Skepticism?"

Groaning, Grantaire turned to the notebook kid. He was rolling his eyes as the boy turned towards him. Suddenly, Grantaire saw nothing but him.

He had curly, blonde hair that was brighter than the sun, with a chiseled jaw and shining blue eyes. He was the most beautiful man Grantaire had ever seen.

"Hello, I'm Enjolras," he said, holding out his hand.

"Grantaire," Grantaire replied, avoiding the hand. Just because he was absolutely fucking gorgeous didn't mean they should shake hands. "What's your position?"

"Rationalism, obviously," Enjolras scoffed. "It's the only logical choice. One cannot know without logic—"

"But logic itself is flawed, a human idea for what is right and wrong. Isn't it better to be skeptical, as the logic itself may have been built on incorrect ideas?" Grantaire interrupted.

Enjolras's eyes narrowed. "That belief is centered around instinct. Rationalism and reason are based on true, hard facts."

"Those facts were made up! They could be twisted or mutilated so they aren't even the original idea anymore!"

"Not if collected correctly. In fact, most information is collected in a bipartisan way, so that we can then use it for everything else-"

This continued for some time, until the rest of the class had stopped speaking, and were looking at the two men. Finally, after Enjolras's face had turned the color of a tomato, Marque put a stop to the debate.

"Well, this is lovely, boys, but can we move on? I'll be sure to bring back that question, however. And thank you for such a lively debate!" He turned towards the board and began writing notes. "Now, when we look at the life of Rousseau..."

Grantaire immediately zoned out, playing back every minute of the debate. He catalogued every facial expression of Enjolras, from the scathing glare when Grantaire would laugh at his point to the disbelief when Grantaire actually had a valid point.  
The lesson itself was over far too soon, and before he knew it, Grantaire was loosing Enjolras in the crowd of students headed away from the dull classroom. With a sigh, Grantaire followed, ashamed of his obsession with this man. After all, who would want some old drunk?

His phone buzzed, and Grantaire grabbed it as he rolled his eyes at his own self-loathing. It was Courfeyrac, the fucker who didn't have classes on Mondays.

_Jehan hasn't shut up about last night, what did you give him?  
_  
_**I didn't know he was such a wuss! Don't blame me! -R**__  
_  
_Joly took him home and said he was bouncing off the fucking walls  
_  
**He didn't have to take me up on my offer. -R**_  
_  
_Just get home so he can deal with his first hangover_

Snapping his phone shut, Grantaire hustled to the metro station. It was a shame he was too cheap to own a car, because that would have been ten times easier than the bungled excuse for a public transport system.

As he boarded the train, Grantaire spotted a familiar head of blonde hair. "Enjolras!" he called, moving across the train.

Enjolras rolled his eyes when he saw him. "God, you again."

"Why the long face? Not happy to see me?" Grantaire smirked.

"I'll admit, you made class a bit more interesting."

Success. "Anytime, my good man. Where are you from? I haven't seen you around here before?"

"Is this your attempt to chat me up?"

"Is it working?"

"My stop," Enjolras said, glaring at Grantaire. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh yes you will!"

It was only after the doors had closed and the train was moving that Grantaire realised that he should have gotten off at that stop too. So, he had to walk twice as far when he got off at the next stop.

By the time he reached Joly's flat, the sun was high in the sky and his headache had worsened. Be that as it may, he knew he had to at least pretend to help Jehan, and that meant going inside the modest flat rather than going home and drowning himself in aspirin. With that thought, he opened the door and waltzed inside.

"Honey, I'm home!" he shouted, only to be shushed by a frazzled Courfeyrac.

"Jehan is going to kill me, I swear!" he whisper-shouted, dragging a hand through his hair. "Joly and Bossuet left about ten minutes in, and Combeferre hasn't arrived yet! Said something about a new friend, but the point is that I have a twat in my bedroom and you need to fix him."

With a shove, Grantaire found himself propelled into the small room, seeing nothing but a small lump under the duvet.  
"I hear someone's been a bitch," Grantaire begins, grabbing the bottle of aspirin.

Jehan simply grumbles and shifts out from under the blanket. He looks even worse than Grantaire, eyes red and hair mussed. His cheek is imprinted with a square, and there is a small cut on his lip.

Nodding, Grantaire holds out four aspirin.

"The amount is two, R," Jehan says scratchily.

"Well, you need four," Grantaire responded, shoving them into Jehan's hand.

Once Jehan had swallowed the pills with a grimace, he flopped back onto the bed, groaning again. "Save me from the pain and torture that spirits provide," he moaned. Grantaire slapped his back and decided it was time for him to leave.

"Try to keep the lamenting to a minimum, or else Courf might just slaughter you."

"I'd like that, right about now," was the only reply.

Chuckling, Grantaire left the room, hoping to find some coffee or tea in the mess that was Joly's kitchen, but he was instead privy to a lovely sight.

Enjolras. In Joly's kitchen.

He covered his shock with faux bravado. "Enjolras! You just couldn't stay away, now could you?"

Enjolras paled. "Combeferre, please tell me he is not one of the friends you wanted me to meet."

Combeferre walked past Grantaire, a bottle of water in his hand. "Wait, you know Grantaire?"

Enjolras slapped a hand to his forehead.

"Enjy and I are besties!" Grantaire said in a falsetto voice. "We've known each other since class this morning!"

"You sound like fucking Jehan, R." Combeferre replied. "What class are you taking with him?"

"Age of Enlightenment," Enjolras groaned. "He's making my life miserable by refuting every point I make with some half-assed argument or a snicker."

"Oh do you mean that, dearest?"

Enjolras just glared. Combeferre laughed. They continued small talk for a few minutes, Grantaire focusing on nothing but Enjolras. Too soon, Combeferre mentioned meeting Feuilly for lunch, and, in a flurry of coats and shoes, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras were out the door, leaving Grantaire to deal with a moaning Jehan.

* * *

Sadly, Age of Enlightenment was the only class Grantaire had with his beloved blond. However, Enjolras would sometimes accompany Combeferre to the Musain for a drink, and Grantaire would catch a quick glimpse or have a quick chat before Enjolras left for schoolwork or social justice.

Through their small chats, Grantaire learned that Enjolras was insane. Literally, insane. He had so much passion and fire and drive that Grantaire was always afraid he would spontaneously explode. It was not only politics that brought the fire to his eyes, but included almost any justice-type idea or right that someone was deprived of.

And Grantaire loved it.

Sometimes, he would provoke Enjolras, either by arguing as the devil's advocate, or simply shrugging off Enjolras' passion, simply to see the light in the man's eyes. The drawn eyebrows, the thin mouth, the set shoulders. Everything about his 'I am so sick of your shit, Grantaire' pose caused a rush in Grantaire's blood. He couldn't understand it, but he would be content with spending his entire life doing this.

With this newfound obsession, his fervor for painting came back. Of course, many of his classes required him to work with certain mediums, and Grantaire could churn out what some would call a masterpiece in less than a day. But Enjolras... he made Grantaire want to paint for the hell of it. And so he did.

His walls were soon covered in paintings of the man. Everything from portraits to obscure still-lifes that represented passion. Everything came in hues of vibrant red and brilliant gold, with accents of blue and white. It was a chaotic beauty, much like the man himself. Once Grantaire started, he couldn't stop. It was madness.

Of course, all good things had to end. And for Grantaire, this happened after the fifth Age of Enlightenment class.  
Marque had given them another discussion topic, discussing a quote from the Kant reading they had done: "Science is organized knowledge, wisdom is organized life."

As usual, Enjolras and Grantaire had gotten into a heated debate, Grantaire laughing at every point Enjolras made and shooting back his own ideas as quickly as Enjolras's had hit him. It was wonderful, and Grantaire admired Enjolras even more once the class had finished.

"Why must you make my life so difficult?" Enjolras asked once they had left the classroom. His tone was angry, but Grantaire saw the twinkle in those deep blue eyes. Much as he loathed Grantaire in some respects, he really enjoyed the banter and having a competent debate partner.

"We wouldn't want you to get bored, now would we Apollo?"

Enjolras paused. "Wait, what did you just call me?"

"I-um, sorry. Must've slipped out," Grantaire stuttered. The high from arguing left him in a flash. Damn it, he was an idiot.

"No, it's okay..." But Grantaire could see it most certainly was not okay. With a huff, he turned away from Enjolras and started towards the door.

"I won't be on the train today, got some things to finish," he called, rushing away from a confused (and probably disgusted)  
Enjolras so he couldn't cause any more harm.

Rushing out the door, he felt his muse wake up again.

Well, muse sounded nicer than "inner critic, " or "bastard-who-ruined-his-life. " The last one was a bit long.

_Way to make a fool of yourself._

Shut up.

_That name was a secret. Now he thinks you're an idiot on top of all your other problems._

You're wrong.

_Am I, though? _  
And Grantaire didn't know. Because, in all seriousness, no one liked him. His friends put up with him for his occasional humour or artistic talents, but given the chance, they would leave him in a heartbeat.

Enjolras was probably feeling bad for him. He was a charity case. Enjolras's newest cause.

The brisk winds hit his face as he trudged back home. It was an hour walk, but it gave him time to come up with a very long list of all the things he could do better, and of all of the reasons Enjolras hated him. By the time he reached home, Grantaire was all but wallowing, and he needed to get rid of these goddamn emotions. They were tearing him in half, twisting his soul into a million pieces, drowning him in the pain.

He made a beeline for the cupboard, and pulled out the bottle. Blueberry vodka. Cheap, but it would do the trick. He unscrewed the top and took a swig, reveling in the burn of the alcohol. Taking the bottle with him, he sat down on a ragged couch in his room, locking his door from the prying eyes of Courfeyrac and Jehan. Another drink, another thought. He needed to finish the whole bottle if he wanted to forget that fucking man.

_And a worthless drunk to top it all off._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks again to Robyn, my wonderful beta! **

Serious Political Puns

Chapter 2

**Enjolras**

The thing Enjolras missed most about Abu Dhabi was the sun. Ever since he had transferred to school in the States, he found New York to be cloudy and cold, and if the sun did appear, it hid behind the skyscrapers. However, Abu Dhabi hadn't offered his particular course set, so he was forced to switch to the New York campus.

Yet it was not all bad. In fact, the social aspects were incredible. With so many organisations that needed members, and so many causes to fight for; Enjolras could never be bored. His newfound group of friends also added to this. Combeferre had been his friend since high school, and by keeping in touch Enjolras had managed to weasel his way into a mass of friends. Courfeyrac would wink and flash a smile in the hallway, Joly would inform him of the ailments he was suffering from, Bossuet loved to help with his American Government homework; he could go on.

And then there was Grantaire. The only friend who didn't make sense.

Grantaire was nothing like Combeferre's friends. He was crass, obnoxious, and lazy. Of course, he proved to be slightly competent in the class they shared, and Enjolras did enjoy their sparring, but he had no idea why the man hung around. A man like Grantaire should be smoking with the other deadbeats rather than pulling Combeferre down.

Shaking his head out of the thoughts, Enjolras made his way to the Café Musain. Apparently, it was the place to be on Friday night, and he wouldn't miss a chance to enlist people in his fight against whichever current injustice that was on their minds on the moment.

_Why would we meet here?_ Enjolras thought as he walked through the café's double doors.  
The pub was small and dingy, with a few lonely men sitting in the shadows. A young girl tended the bar, but no one was clamouring for drinks or debating politics like Enjolras had been promised.

The bartender seemed to notice his confusion and waved him over. "Can I help you, buddy?" she asked in a strong voice.

"Yes, I'm looking for Combeferre and-"

She cut him off with a loud "shut _up!"_ Noticing his confused look, she continued: "you're Apollo, aren't you? R was right! You are a fucking god!"

"You know Grantaire?"

"Who doesn't? He basically lives here, even when his posse isn't around." She held out a hand. "Eponine, by the way."

"Why does he call me that?"

"You'll have to ask him yourself, oh great god Apollo."

"Enjolras. Not Apollo."

"Oh but you so _are!_ You and I will need to talk, Apollo. But right now, your friends are upstairs in their secret clubhouse." She motioned to a rickety staircase, and Enjolras gave her a nod and walked up…

…Into exactly what Combeferre described. It seemed as if their group had acquired a few more friends than Enjolras had met, and everyone was busy. Jehan walked around handing out drinks, his face red as Courfeyrac shamelessly flirted with the smaller man. Bossuet and Joly seemed to have commandeered a corner where they had spread out their books and were studying intensely. Combeferre caught his gaze from where he was talking to Grantaire, and waved him over.

"Enjolras! Glad you could show up! Anything?" He motioned to Grantaire's beer.

"Eh, I don't drink," he replied sheepishly. Grantaire let out a gasp, his hand flying dramatically to his chest.

"What is this? The famed Apollo deems himself above the mere mortals and their vices?" By the few slurred words, Enjolras could tell that Grantaire was already more than a bit drunk.

"I don't like having my senses impaired," Enjolras argued.

"But wine opens your eyes! You know what they say, _in vino veritas_."

"You're drinking beer."

Grantaire looked at his bottle. "Ah, you're right. Well, the sentiment still stands."

Enjolras turned to Combeferre, who was watching the exchange with amusement in his eyes. "What?"

"He's been talking about you nonstop since we got here."

"Well, he's drunk, right? By the way, what's up with the Apollo thing? He called me it one day and the sprinted away, and the girl from downstairs recognised me because of it."

Combeferre outright laughed. "Well, Eponine is always like that. But I think you'll have to ask him yourself."

Enjolras groaned. He did not want to spend his evening trying to get a coherent argument out of the drunken man.

Sensing his caution, Combeferre reassured him that Grantaire was, in fact, a surprisingly eloquent drunk, and wrote most of his best essays under the influence. "Now," he continued, "I have to leave. Ella and I are going to Skype in twenty minutes."

"Wait, you're still together?" Enjolras asked, aghast. Ella and Combeferre had dated for three years, but then the latter left for New York and Enjolras had assumed the pair had broken up. As Combeferre blushed, however, Enjolras knew it was still a thing. "Congratulations!" he said, thinking that something should come out of his mouth. A few more words were exchanged, and Combeferre left, leaving Enjolras with an inebriated Grantaire.

"So, how are you doing on your essay?" Enjolras asked, hoping for a simple conversation.

Grantaire snorted. "You're resorting to small talk? I thought we were better friends than this, dear."

"Then tell me about my name," Enjolras blurted out. Grantaire frowned. "Apollo," he clarified, "you called me it that day after class."

Grantaire blushed. "It slipped out," he said, voice suddenly much meeker. "Think nothing of it."

"But the girl downstairs, Epoline or something, called me Apollo."

"That bitch." Grantaire glared at the floor as if she could see him. He took another drink, returning his eyes to Enjolras, smiling cheekily. "Fine. It fits, doesn't it?"

"God of truth and sexy as hell." It was Enjolras's turn to blush.

"I'm not that-"

"Oh shut it, Apollo," Grantaire slurred, pointing his new bottle at Enjolras. "I can't even focus in class with you anymore. Your stupid eyes and stupid smile. And your stupid hair that's brighter than the sun. But let's not forget your voice, Mr. Eloquence." His ramblings continued, growing more and more vulgar until Courfeyrac heard and rushed over, covering Grantaire's mouth with his hand.

"God, Enjolras. I'm sorry about this dick. I'd better get him home, or else he'll bother the whole cafe." He sent an apologetic look towards Jehan before taking the bottle out of Grantaire's hand.

"I can't take you away from Jehan," Enjolras countered. "I can take him home. I've got an essay to finish anyway."

Courfeyrac brightened. "That would be great! You're a savior, Enjy." He turned away and slid an arm around Jehan's shoulder, playing with the smaller man's braid.

"Come on, Grantaire. You need to go home," he growled, trying to drag the man out of the room.

"Going to take me to bed, are you?" Grantaire said loudly. Enjolras didn't respond, simply pulling him out of the cafe and into the dark street. Once they were walking, Grantaire slung an arm around Enjolras' shoulder, and they sauntered down the street, when Enjolras realised he had no idea where Grantaire lived.

"On a street," Grantaire said when Enjolras voiced his question. Groaning, Enjolras realized he would have to take Grantaire to his house.

For the majority of the walk, Grantaire was silent, content to play with the small hairs on Enjolras' neck. Seeing as it was better than the crass comments, Enjolras allowed it. He soon found that he actually enjoyed it.

Finally, they reached Enjolras' townhouse that he and Combeferre shared. A sudden thought came to him, and he turned to Grantaire.

"Listen to me, Grantaire," he said quietly, hoping to get through the aclohol-fogged brain. "'Ferre is Skyping with his girlfriend so we have to be quiet. Please don't shout or I'll throw you out the window."

Grantaire nodded meekly, and the two opened the door, Grantaire still not letting go of Enjolras. They heard the sound of laughter coming from Combeferre's room, and silently passed into Enjolras'. Grantaire made a beeline for the bed, and Enjolras couldn't help but smile. He had curled up on the blanket and kicked off his shoes, nuzzling into the pillow.

The domesticity of it all suddenly hit Enjolras. He and Grantaire weren't even friends, right? More acquaintances. Grantaire was crass and obnoxious and lazy and drunk...

...and really adorable right now.

Enjolras rolled his eyes at the thought. Then, ignoring the mumbles from his bed, he turned to the oak desk to finish his three essays, two of which were for petitions against the biased and bigoted government.

He typed in silence but for the occasional comment from Grantaire.

"Your sheets smell like lemon."

"Do you smell like lemon?"

"I think you do, but I can't tell because I have a stuffy nose."

"Sometimes I think you never sleep 'cause you do so much stuff."

They kept coming until he apparently fell asleep, letting Enjolras finish a quick letter to the author of an incredibly irritating article in the _Times_. However, he managed to catch the last mumble over the shuffle of sheets:

"I don't deserve this."

Enjolras turned sharply, but Grantaire's eyes were closed and his breathing was even. Unable to write anything else, Enjolras threw on a pair of worn sweatpants and debated going to sleep in the study. However, after moments of deliberation, he decided he wouldn't let Grantaire keep him from getting a good night's rest.

Gingerly, he climbed over the sleeping man and lay stiff as a plank on the bed, not daring to move. But he didn't have to worry, for as soon as he dipped into the mattress, Grantaire shifted over and threw and arm over Enjolras' chest, effectively trapping him. Rather than moving it, Enjolras simply accepted it, and fell asleep to dreams of warmth and black hair.


End file.
